I’ve finally given up GhettoGym for the luxury and convenience of SuburbaGym, a mere 2 seconds from my place of employment. SuburbaGym smells way less like BO and way more like Ben Gay, but it’s a small price to pay. SuburbaGym is also subsidized by my parents, in what I suspect is a means of making me thinner and thus, married off.
Fine with me.
Anyway, I was marching away on the elliptical last night when I took a second to look around me. In the bank of 4 elliptical trainers, I was not only the only female working out, but the only one not collecting social security. All three grandpas were on like, Level 1, reading newspapers or staring at CNN. Suddenly, I felt far better about myself and my Level 12. I mean, look at these old codgers, thinking they’re prolonging their practically over life by moseying around at SuburbaGym.
Halfway into my US Magazine, the geriatric next to me took his leave, wiping his “sweat” off with the antibacterial towlettes provided by SuburbaGym (note to GhettoGym, not a bad idea, huh?)
And in his place?
She must have been 15. She was practically naked. And she warmed up on Level 20.
My pace slowed, my heart (rate) dropped, and I looked down at my baggy track pants next to Miss Teen USA’s perfect tan thighs.
I’m old. I’m sweaty. And I’m on loser Level 12.
At least at GhettoGym, the hottest bitch I worked out with was a hobo named Patches who’s missing a toe…